The View from the Hill on Thursday 14th January

Not so icy outside today, just foggy, but I will risk a trip to Lincoln this morning.

I have been following with some amusement, the list of people on Facebook who are keen to tell the world what fine they should pay for their previous sexual and criminal behaviour, ranging from peeing in a swimming pool to having sex with strangers.

I haven't completed the task, not from any sense of prudishness, only the other day I spent some time on the phone with a lady of advanced years discussing her sex life - yes, I'm that sort of friend to some people, they feel they can open up and tell me anything and everything!

Obviously her identity will remain undisclosed, but she was quite happy to discuss how at 66 she had managed to bag herself a lover half her age and she then told me of the great sex they were having - well the weather has been bad and she couldn't get out so you need to keep warm to avoid hypothermia!

During the course of our chat, she reminded me of the fact that I had been the apple of her eye in the past and that she was not the only one who had designs on me. Now at this I pricked up my ears, (just my ears) because anyone with a pulse would like to think that they still might be attractive.

It was the second time in a week that I had been reminded of my raw sexual magnetism, although those who feel the attraction are not always those I might choose to have respond to it. I can say no more here without blushing.

I told Mrs B of these sexual revelations and she quite rightly threw herself at my feet, actually she fell to the floor laughing - back to reality.

Oh to be the flame and have all those moths fluttering around once more - you see I never noticed them the first time which is why my fine would have been pretty low.

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On this day in 1977, the author Anais Nin died. She was quite famous for her erotica.

She wrote about her steamy encounters with swarthy men (and women) and there was a lot of throbbing and sweat - I still think they were doing it wrong.

One of my distant relatives wrote their own collection of erotic poems, he was called Bob 'the Knob' Price and he wrote such masterpieces as :-

My love is like a red red rose, it's got greenfly but they feel nice as they crawl across your skin.

Or - Shall I compare thee to a summers day? No, your more like a wet weekend especially when I hit the spot!

Or - How do I love thee, let me count the ways. On the kitchen table, in the freezer section at Tesco, on the back seat of a Roadrunner bus, in the queue for the swine flu jab, at your granny's funeral, etc etc.

His fame was short lived, as was he himself - killed tying to reenact that final poem and electrocuting himself and his lover on a pylon near Llandudno

And that's a fact!